


don't we all fall?

by itisjosh



Series: onlypain [62]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: :), Afterlife, Angst, Friends to Enemies, Friendship, Gen, Goodbyes, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Pogtopia, Sort of Friends, Understanding, Wilbur Soot-centric, begrudging friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:14:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29892024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itisjosh/pseuds/itisjosh
Summary: It's funny how the trading of a lighter can destroy an entire nation in only a minute.
Relationships: Jschlatt & Wilbur Soot
Series: onlypain [62]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2027711
Comments: 3
Kudos: 69





	don't we all fall?

Wilbur wanders through the woods, crunching leaves under his boots because he can. The bitter taste of winter air fills his lungs, settling on his tongue, making his chest ache for old memories that he can't remember all that well. Wilbur adjusts his cloak, popping the collar of it to properly shield his neck from the biting cold of the winter breeze. He continues to walk along a worn down and beaten pathway that's only just been made recently, both by himself and Tommy. Tommy can act like he doesn't leave Pogtopia, like he doesn't go back to L'manberg, renamed _Manberg_ by that stupid goat _fuck_ , but Wilbur knows better. Wilbur isn't stupid - he may be reckless and impulsive and self-destructive almost to a fault, but he isn't stupid. Wilbur looks up at the trees, cocking his head to the side curiously as he watches a few birds scramble from the branches above him, beating their wings as quickly as they can as they take off into the sky, disappearing a few moments later. 

He thinks that it would be quite freeing to be able to fly. To be able to fly away from all this, to fly away from all of his problems. But alas, Wilbur isn't able to do that, Wilbur's never going to actually be free until he's dead, and with the way that the world is shaping up, it seems as if he isn't going to die for a while. Which is a shame, Wilbur thinks to himself, a little more bitterly than he intended to. Being alive is exhausting and awful, and Wilbur really does believe that it would be so much easier to not have to do that anymore. He sighs, biting down on his lower lip until he draws blood, raising his thumb up to wipe away the crimson that stains his pale blue lips. Even if he isn't dead, he sure does look the part, he's well aware of that. Wilbur continues to move, swaying on his feet as he walks throughout the forest that leads him back to his home, to his nation. L'manberg isn't really home anymore, not after Schlatt wrapped his stupid hands around its throat. L'manberg was supposed to be Wilbur's home, his symphony, his grand musical, and yet here he is. Here he is, trudging through a forest in some dusty old trench coat, his knuckles bruised and bloody, wandering back to the place he once called home. 

How the times change. 

Oh, how the times change. 

Wilbur looks back up at the sky, watching as the dark blue starts to fade, being replaced with gold, a lighter blue taking over it. Wilbur can see L'manberg come into view, he can see the buildings around it slowly start to appear in his vision. He smiles a little, shoving his hands in his pockets as he continues to move silently throughout the forest, stepping over leaves and sticks and rocks, figuring that it's not worth it to be as loud as he had been only a few minutes prior to now. Wilbur stares at the White House and at the towers and at everything, feeling his heart and chest ache a little. This used to be his home, this place used to be the only place where he truly felt like he was able to breathe. Wilbur climbs up the back steps to the building, the tower, that looms over L'manberg, listening to them creak underneath of him as he moves. 

He reaches the top, staring down at L'manberg. Wilbur smiles, moving his hands out of his pockets, moving them so they're behind his back. He stands on the edge, his trench coat billowing in the breeze behind him. Wilbur feels a little less tired, a little less hurt. He knows that no one is going to actually hurt him, even if they were able to catch them, which they won't be. Wilbur is much faster and far more clever than the majority of people that he knows. He stares down at his old nation, the place that he can never actually have back, and feels the warmth of the sun that starts to rise from behind him. Wilbur tilts his head to the side as he hears footsteps from underneath of him, turning his head down to stare at Schlatt. 

His foil, his antagonist, his best friend, his enemy. There are a thousand words he can use to describe Schlatt, and yet they never seem to be enough. Schlatt is so much more than Wilbur could ever say, and he used to find that endearing, lovable. Now, it's just annoying and bittersweet. There used to be a time in both of their lives where they were closer than anyone else could have ever hoped to be, and now they're simply enemies. Enemies, Wilbur thinks, isn't actually the word for it. No, his relationship with Schlatt is something entirely different from anything that he's ever seen before, and while he's proud of that, he can't help but feel disgust towards what they have between them. It's a bitter hatred, scarred over a thousand times, worn down by anger and hurt. Wilbur doubts that they'll ever be the same people who they were only a few months ago. Wilbur knows that _he_ will never be the same person. Not after Pogtopia, not after the deals he's made. Not after the things he's done. 

Schlatt says nothing as he looks back up at Wilbur, his own arms placed behind his back. His suit is well-tailored, fitted to perfection, crisp, no wrinkles in sight. Schlatt has always cared about his appearance far more than Wilbur ever could have. Wilbur locks eyes with the man who he thinks that he would have died for only a few years ago, and he waits. He doesn't know what it waits for - maybe it's for Schlatt to speak, maybe it's for him to make a move. Maybe he waits for Schlatt to pull out a crossbow and shoot him in the chest, Wilbur isn't sure. Perhaps he's waiting for his own death, perhaps Schlatt is waiting for the same thing. Wilbur doubts that he'll ever figure it out, even after all of this.

But still he waits anyways, carefully and cautiously watching the man below him. Schlatt moves his arms, reaching down into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a gold-plated flip lighter. Wilbur's lips quirk up a little as he moves his own arms, his hands resting at his sides. Schlatt spares a brief glance up at him, a grin working its way onto his face. The silence between them should be deafening, it should be agonising, but it isn't. Wilbur watches as Schlatt raises his hand, his lighter tucked behind his fingers. With a flick of his wrist, the lighter is thrown up into the air, soaring throughout the sky. Wilbur raises his hand even faster than Schlatt moved his wrist, catching the lighter with ease. He looks down at it, smiling a little more as he runs his thumb over the engraved letters that rest on the body of the lighter. 

_J.S_

Schlatt looks back up at him, locking eyes with him once more. Neither of them say anything, and Wilbur thinks that it's eerily fitting of them. Even when they were younger, neither of them ever had to speak for the other to understand what was being said. 

_This is goodbye_ , Schlatt says with his eyes. 

_I know,_ Wilbur says back.

Schlatt sighs, leaning back on his heels, looking entirely impatient. "Say it back at least, pretty boy."

Wilbur smiles, feeling his eyes crinkle at the sides. Maybe he's gone fucking mental, maybe he's just imagining this entire conversation in his head, but judging by the way that Schlatt is grinning up at him, he highly doubts it. 

"Goodbye, Schlatt."

There's a beat of silence, and Wilbur really can't help but smile even more. He wasn't supposed to use Schlatt's real name. It makes it so much harder by using real names. Nicknames, like pretty boy and sheep, were always their way of saying goodbye. 

Wilbur has made it real. 

He's made it official. 

This really is their last goodbye. 

Schlatt swallows, it's very apparent. Wilbur would be able to see it from a mile away. 

"Goodbye, Wilbur." 

And just like that, those goodbyes hang heavy in the air, in the space between them. Schlatt doesn't move away, and neither does Wilbur. He doesn't want to, there's a part of him that's screaming at him to stay put, to keep himself glued to one spot. Wilbur thinks that Schlatt feels the same way. It's almost like magic how the both of them turn away at the same time, how both of them laugh when they realise that they've done so. 

It's peculiar how they always manage to do this.

Wilbur walks away from his nation and from the one man who truly understands him, and he doesn't look back, not even once. 

It's comforting to know that Schlatt does the exact same.

* * *

_Phil sobs as he holds his son close to his chest, blood staining his hands, tears staining his cheeks. He holds Wilbur as tightly as he can, whispering the words that he never got to say when he was alive, feeling broken and bitter and hurt. He flinches when he hears something clatter against the ground, turning his head to the side, looking down at the blood stained ground._

_Right by Wilbur's coat pocket is a gold-plated flip lighter, one that Phil has never seen before, one that he doesn't think he should be seeing._

_There are two letters engraved onto the lighter, and they seem so unbelievably familiar, but Phil doesn't know why._

_J.S_

_Phil picks the lighter back up, swallowing back his tears, and sets it right back into Wilbur's pocket. If his son had it on him in his death, then Phil is going to keep it like that. He clutches Wilbur to his chest, and the lighter fades out of his mind, replaced with a hollow sadness that he thinks will never go away. He doesn't know how Wilbur ignited the TNT, there wasn't a button or anything like that, there was nothing that could have done it. Phil ignores those thoughts, and just holds his dying son to his heart, wishing so desperately that he had done something different._

* * *

_And somewhere, locked away from the real world, Wilbur pulls out a gold-plated flip lighter with the initials of J.S engraved onto them and walks along the white pathway of nothingness. Waiting for him is the man who gave him the lighter. Schlatt smirks at him, leaning back on his heels. Wilbur beams right back at him, tossing the lighter into the air, catching it again._

_"Hey, sheep," Wilbur grins, running his thumb over the engravement. "You miss me?" It's only been a few hours after Schlatt's death, Wilbur thinks. He's not sure, but he can imagine that it might have felt like years to Schlatt. Being dead is already tiring, which isn't really selling Wilbur on doing this for the rest of his life. Afterlife, he corrects himself._

_Schlatt laughs, throwing his head back. "Nah, never. Come on, pretty boy. I think it's time we go and talk a little more."  
_

_Wilbur smiles._

_"You got it, Schlatt." Schlatt sighs at him, narrowing his eyes sharply._

_"Why do you always gotta make it real, Wilbur?"_

_Wilbur laughs, finding it unbelievably ironic that Schlatt only says his name back to him when Wilbur says Schlatt's in the first place. Their friendship is so fucked, and Wilbur wouldn't have it any other way._

_Schlatt starts to move away from him, and so Wilbur follows his foil into the afterlife, flipping open the lighter and watching as the flames reflect back in his eyes._

_It's sort of funny, Wilbur thinks, how Wilbur destroyed both his and Schlatt's nation with one flame from Schlatt's lighter._


End file.
